


Faith

by goldandbeloved



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Daenerys Targaryen, Dothraki, Dragons, F/F, Fire and Blood, Folklore, Game of Thrones Fix-It, Genderqueer, House Targaryen, Lesbian Character, Love, Magic, Other, Queen Daenerys, Queer Themes, Red Priestess, Targaryen, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:38:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldandbeloved/pseuds/goldandbeloved
Summary: Friends of the Great Queen.(and Happy Pride.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Something new while I get back in the Wolf-Girl/ San Franciso groove. Long story.  
> 1\. No, I wasn't happy with the way they wrote the ending of the show. For all my Targaryens in respect and love because I couldn't shake It from my head. TV spoilers, sort of.  
> 2\. Yes, I was raised Catholic. I did the prayers.  
> 3\. Neither Dothraki nor Valyrian are my first language, any and all mistakes are mine.  
> 4\. This was based on wondering what Daenrys's story would mean to others, who controls narratives, popular non-canonical folk saints, Caitlin Kiernan and Angela Carter and dragon biology plus Pride.
> 
> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoy.

**Across the Narrow Sea**

Irri is tired of Pentos today. Streets glutted with casks of wine, jewels of glass and cheap versions of Lysene shawls, carts of sticky, hot honeyfingers and the smell of piss that always comes up like a smothering cloud over the stones and mud, no matter how many resins and sweet things people burn.  
Everything is in a dark cluster, cluttered and terrible and Irri longs for the sky., one not scarred by rooftops and clotheslines. Irri looks up at a strip of blue and runs a hand through black curls that are starting to grow longer again, finally. Even between the houses and the clouded smoke of cookshops, the sky is dark amethyst, the stars are coming out. Important things happen beneath the stars, the worthiest.

**A Dreamer on the Green Sea**

It was long ago.  
“You have to be careful.” Irri saw the woman, old enough for the Dosh Khaleen, were she noble, but it’s Irri’s grandmother.  
Irri’s heart had pounded for Irri was caught trying on Grandmother’s carved bone, starry mare necklace. Irri was sick with fear that it was unfit and unclean, Grandmother would be angry that Irri dared to wear a mare, she would know. Grandmother adjusted the pendant settled it till it glowed like moonlight over Irri’s skin, starlight on an evening plain. Grandmother had smoothed Irri’s hair, moved her fingers through its midnight length. “Don’t let her see.” Grandmother had whispered, subtle and quiet as the wind over waves of the Great Grass Sea. “She does not mean you well.”)

In Pentos now, Irri cannot bear the thoughts and so it is that Irri wanders.

**Home**

Irri hardly stumbles over words now-Valyrian, the lumpy pebbles of the Common Tongue. There are still chuckles, a thoughtless customer will say Irri is a rube, backwards, but then they smile and offer a honeycake saying every time that it’s just as sweet as Irri is. Irri smiles, flutters ebony lashes and eats it willingly, but there are things Irri misses; the tart, sharp richness of mare’s milk from a skin, jerky that can be chewed for hours and hours, sustaining and rich, dried berries that turn tongues red and make lips pucker.When Irri misses these the honey is too much, cloying but Irri still smiles and says thank you. Lots of the Second Sons weaken in the knees over that smile and no one says Irri’s eyes are too dark, Irri’s skin is too shadowed, Irri’s dancing is too pretty, too much.  
Beneath the stars on a clay rooftop, Irri dances in the belt of brass bells that the captain of the Second Sons brought out, jingling and ringing:  
“Here. Put it on.” In the dance, Irri is a joyous conqueror. The city sky does not seem so small when Irri laughs and Second Sons smile to see Irri smile.

(Irri misses the coziness of tents and cookfires. Irri’s guts churn when Irri thinks of one sour with sweat and fear, heavy with the coppery scent of blood. Unclean thing.)

But Irri is done dancing for today. Irri’s feet are tired, hips sore from swinging, legs ache from walking, stomach churns from the lamb and pine nut lumps she had from a cookshop where the bread was good but everything else was greasy. Jerky isn’t that oily, doesn’t coat one’s tongue and leave you queasy. Irri tried finding some when she first arrived but some shopkeepers laughed.

“And what voyage are you going on?”  
Irri learned that Pentoshi don’t eat that. Face flushed and Irri’s afraid they know that Irri isn’t sophisticated after all.

 

**In The Waste**

Tonight, Irri wishes for thickened, sour mare’s milk to soothe an angry stomach but they don’t have that here.

(The milk that Irri tried to eat that day had blue-green fur on it, smelled bad. Irri had to hide it bit by bit so it would look gone, so there would not be angry words, but there were anyway. Irri wanted to be outside, but had to give respect, to listen.  
“They’ll never burn your body. You’ll walk in the dark, alone. Forever.”A hiss in the darkness, more frightening than any maegi’s curse because this was a promise.  
“ Not a true son. Girl-thing. Unclean.”  
“Come back soon., father.” Irri thought though it was futile. “Come back soon.”)

**You Are Nothing**

Irri walks past torch-bearers and bright curtained sedan chairs, hears the warm liquid wine-soaked noises of parties, wants to sleep. No one notices Irri right now, which is just as well. Along the stone wall of a tavern, white jasmine flowers make the dark green of the leaves a night sky. The fragrance is sweet, Irri lets it wash over the air. Like a memory.

(“A son, I was promised a son!” Irri tried to run in the skin-smelling dark of the tent, but felt the blade of the knife, the sudden shock and horror of cool air at the nape of the neck, stripped and shamed, hair gone, the scent of coppery blood, the slap of red across the face. Irri did not scream as Irri’s mother fell back close to the fire, hand dripping with her own redness. “I give my blood to try and make you right. To make you a true son and look at you. Black magic. Blood magic. Because of you. Filth.” Irri’s skin crawled, Irri tried to wipe it off, forsaken, no braid now, not ever, terrified.  
Irri’s mother fell like a turtle on its back, squirming with the knife. Irri had extended a hand. Irri should not have been merciful. Mercy is the vice of a khal and that’s how Irri has a milky scar against a dark cheek now. They think it pretty here. One Second Son wrote a poem.)

Despite the warm air, Irri shivers, brings forth a memory for comfort, soft like sandsilk.

**All My Bloodriders**

“Listen. The armoured men of the West, the khals, they lie. This story is true.” Grandmother’s breath was a soft rattle, her hair white as bone against her tanned skin. Irri knew it was time to listen.  
“Long ago, there was a lost girl who was also a khaleesi. She had no horses, no screamers, not a single bell. She was very pretty even though she was pale as ghostgrass, looked like her blood could not blaze.” Grandmother looked up, to make sure Irri was listening. “But remember, she was more. Because she dreamed. She had no khalasar. And so she made one born in flames.”

Grandmother sighed. Irri felt like the ancestors were drawing close, to listen. “Fire is not man or woman. Fire brings us home. Fire is one in itself. Understand.” Grandmother drew her hand to Irri’s cheek, stroking it. “The world took the child from her belly, her khal from her side, her bloodriders left her to hunger and thirst and die .. and her pyre did not consume her. Instead, she rose upon it. With her children, she flew to victory.

“And after that, all who were exiled became her children. She rode from the Red Waste in only a hrakkar-pelt and her burned-away hair grew back, enough for a bell, enough for braids. One at a time. And she had children of wing and fang. She had children neither male nor female. Like fire. And though her body would not bear children, she was still a mother and a khal. Not simply a khaleesi. The greatest khal that ever was or ever shall be.”

Silence, the crackle of the fire. Grandmother coughed, Irri bringing water to her lips. She opened them and spoke:

“Men who had done cruel things were brought to her feet. She forgave them, uplifted them and how they flew! Those who did not-well, she added another victory for she had earned them in sweat and battle learning every strange word, the deeds that give a khal bells and braids. She set all captives free, she was their sister and their mother and their queen. Mhysa.  
In her khalasar, she broke every wall and there was nothing between slave and free, man or woman, fire or blood. And she took men from the Great Grass Sea to the wooden horses and they flew across the water when they could not dream of it before. She let them see it was possible. The men of the West-she brought them splendour. And fear. And victory.” 

Clutching Irri’s hand, Grandmother stared, the light of the next world in her eyes.  
“I will tell you how to call her. You have a need.”

(Irri, roused at night in the darkness. Irri knowing the value of silence, a ghost-pale horse at the edge of the camp under the crystal stars, the ripple of the grass. Instinctively, Irri swung up, knowing as surely as the horse moved with the pressure of a thigh that this was the last time. Out of the shadows, a taller stronger one. Deep onyx eyes, so like Irri’s, a dark braid, the scent of smoke and ashes from Grandmother’s pyre. At the edge of the camp like smoke rising, the last of Irri’s mother wailing in grief though she’d never weep for anyone if under the skins of the tent.

One last look.

“Your body will be burned. This I swear. Go now.” Irri’s father slapping the horse’s flank, the loaded saddlebags shaking with water, jerky, pelts to keep off the cold, Irri moving like a silver comet away from the camp, away from the plains, away from everything. With each league. the cookfires grew smaller till they vanished.

When days later they reached the outskirts of a town, Irri whispered gratitude in the horse’s ear, tapped her flank and watched her run home, each hoofbeat a blow to the heart, a beat of gratitude that this was almost far enough. When the first person asked for a name for passage to Pentos, it was Irri now and always had been.)

**I Have Never Been Nothing**

Fire burning low, Irri’s grandmother almost gone. “Men lie. Men hate. Men betray that which they fear. And they spat upon her name, defiled her victory and her honour with their false tongues. That is how our great queen lies far away, carried from hateful men, carried from us on black wings. But we know better.”

Irri’s grandmother looked beautiful, the fire painting her with gold. “Open.” Irri pulled open the tent flap to the sky, to let the stars shine in.

“There are red queens that guard her far beyond the rim of the world. Keep her safe till she shall come again, in fire and blood and all the lies shall fall. Call on her. She loves every strange, beautiful and lost child, slave or free, noble or common, human or not-all are in her khalasar, none are cast out. And one day she will break all old gods and new beneath her feet. The mounted world shall tremble at her glory. At our glory. If you are a stranger in a far away place she will not abandon you. Call on her with your true name. You are her child and you will be given wings.  
You shall break the wheel that breaks you. This I swear." _Chomokh tat khaleesi._ ”  
Grandmother looked at the stars, back at Irri, brushed her lips against the healing wound at a dark cheek, whispered a name:

Irri.”

 

**Blood of My Blood**

“Irri!”  
Irri turns. A girl, remembered from an evening with the Second Sons, reading fortunes in the fire, all their wishes for golden women, battle, cargoes of spices, soon.  
Eyes and hair like burning roses almost matching her linen gown, skin fever-pale, but a pretty smile, the rising sun catching the wine-coloured jewel at her throat. She extends her hand.  
Irri takes it, trying to smile, not like a country girl. A horse-girl.  
“Kinvara.”  
“Red stars.” thinks Irri, looking at her eyes.

They sit by the canal watching the dawn, munching a mix of spiced sweet locusts, hot and sour dates that make Irri’s tongue burn.  
In the violet air, Kinvara turns.  
“They say you are a friend of the Great Queen.”

Irri ducks her head then holds it high, her black hair a dragonglass crown. “Yes.” she says. “Yes, I am.”

“In joy I await her return.” Kinvara’s eyes are bright as rubies, the single tear tattooed underneath. Irri doesn’t need to be told what she was long ago, just as Irri was once someone else too. Irri knows that Kinvara will never laugh at her accent, her wish for mare’s milk, anything about her.  
“As do I.” murmurs Irri.  
“Fire and blood.” they whisper, tipping their heads to touch, watching the barges go back and forth, the dawn burning forth to day.

And that is how they sit together in this strange city, Pentos, the beautiful horse-girl in a brass belt and the Red God’s priestess-to-be, lips stung from spices, fingers sticky from dates. They speak in tongues, sharing their wishes, Kinvara stumbling gently over Irri’s prayer _chomokh tat daenerys_ Irri’s lips moving tenderly over Kinvara’s words _Īlva kivio dārilaros._ They know what it is to be chosen, what it is to be loved for who they are, that they are exiles but not alone. Irri and Kinvara laugh and it is the sound of spears on shields, thousands of bells.  
That morning, the air around them is alive with the song of dragons.


	2. Faith: Irri's Prayer

Hail Daenerys

Honor to Daenerys, born of Fire and Storm,  
You who are Queen Beyond Walls  
We, your bloodriders. are with you.  
You are victory in battle over khal and armoured men  
And blessed are the wings of the untamed steed you ride.  
Fill my heart with fire and blood  
Choose me to feast in the tent of my enemy  
Free me from all slavery.   
Proud Queen and Queen of All Braids   
Mother of All Who Suffer  
Be with me in war and in strength  
Crown me in victory,  
Choose me for your khalasar of stars  
For today and the day of my death.

Dracarys.

Chokmok Daenerys

Chomokh tat daenerys, yol ki vorsa akka vaz,  
yer fin hash khalessi vo gref  
kisha, yeri dothrakhqoyi hash ma yer.   
yer hash iffi she vilajero khal akkashor tawakof:mahrazhi  
akka azhasavva hash jin felde ki ivezh sajo yer dothralat.   
azho tat anna zhor ma vorsa akka qoy  
okka anha dothrak adakhataan she anna dozgo okre  
seris anna arrekoon ei azzafrok.   
khalessi ki athjahakar akka khalessi ki ei jahak  
mai ki ei fin dogat  
tikh ma anna she athvilajerar akka she athhajar  
azho tat anna iffi firikhnharen:   
okka anna ha yeri khalasar ki shieraki  
ha asshekh akka asshekh anni athdrivar

 

dracarys.


	3. Faith: Kinvara's Prayer

Our Prince

Our Prince of Promise  
Who are in all kingdoms and in none  
great is your name.

Give us today the blood of the dragon  
And may our chains be dust  
As we destroy those who wish to destroy us.  
Teach us that all men must die  
And in your name may all men serve.

Great Queen, lead us to victory  
free us from the wheel of pain.

For yours is the fire the blood and the glory, for all time.

Dracarys. Dracarys. Dracarys.

 

Īlva Dārilaros 

Īlva kivio dārilaros  
qilōni issi isse mirre Dārȳti se isse mirre  
rōvēgrie iksis aōha brōzi. 

tepagon īlva tubī se ānogar hen zaldrīzes  
se kostagon īlva belma sagon jeson  
hae īlon pryjagon lī qilōni jaelagon naejot pryjagon īlva.   
bodmagho īlva bona valar morghūlis  
se isse aōha brōzi kostagon valar dohaeragon. 

rōvēgrie dāria, jemagon īlva naejot ērinnon  
dāez īlva hen se grevy hen ōdres. 

syt aōhon iksis se perzys se ānogar se se jaqiarzir, syt mirre jēda.

Dracarys. Dracarys. Dracarys.


End file.
